Chapter 6: Signing On
Two days.
Two days of waiting, of watching, of feeling that constant pull toward Jack like a thread sewn through my ribs.
He came and went unpredictably—here one moment, vanished the next, appearing at taverns and docks and once, inexplicably, on the roof of a bakery arguing with a parrot. I tried not to stare too obviously. I tried not to let the pull drive me to follow him everywhere.
Mostly, I succeeded.
Then word spread: Gibbs was recruiting for Sparrow's venture.
The line formed at dawn on the third day.
Thirty men, maybe more, gathered at the end of a dock where Joshamee Gibbs sat behind an overturned barrel serving as a desk. He looked exactly like I remembered from the films—round, weathered, with mutton chops and the permanent squint of a man who'd spent too many years staring at horizons.
I joined the queue and waited.
The sun climbed. Men talked around me in a dozen accents—English, Spanish, French, Portuguese, languages I couldn't identify. Pirates and sailors, criminals and dreamers, all hoping for a spot on whatever scheme Jack Sparrow was running.
The line crawled forward.
"Name?"
Gibbs' voice was gruff. The man before me—a Portuguese sailor with impressive scars—was giving his credentials.
"Sailed with Captain Henriques for three years. Navigation and gunnery."
"Henriques, you say?" Gibbs scratched his chin. "Heard he took a commission with the Company. Gone legitimate."
"Yes. Which is why I'm here."
Gibbs nodded slowly. "Fair enough. You're in. Report to the Faithful Bride tonight—we'll discuss terms."
The Portuguese sailor moved on. My turn.
I stepped forward and met Gibbs' evaluating stare.
"Name?"
"Micke Balmond."
"Balmond." He rolled the name around. "Not English."
"No."
"Where've you sailed?"
This was the test. I'd prepared a story—shipwreck survivor, sole witness, tragic tale that was common enough in Tortuga to be believable. But the words that came out were slightly different than planned.
"Independent trader. The Aurora—Dutch vessel out of Saint Martin. She went down in a storm six weeks ago. I'm the only one who made it to shore."
Gibbs grunted. "Can you work rigging?"
"Yes."
"Navigate?"
"Basics. Stars and dead reckoning."
"Fight?"
I thought of the bar brawl. Of the tingling at my skull, the split-second warnings that had kept me alive.
"When I have to."
Gibbs studied me for a long moment. Something in his eyes suggested he wasn't entirely satisfied—that he sensed something off about my story, my bearing, the way I stood too straight for a man who'd survived a wreck.
But Tortuga was full of liars. Half-truths were the local currency.
"You're in," he said finally. "Report tonight. We sail within the week."
Relief hit me like a wave. I hadn't realized how tense I'd been until the decision came down.
"Thank you."
"Thank the captain," Gibbs replied. "This is his venture. I'm just finding the bodies to crew it."
He pressed something into my hand—a brass token stamped with a crude ship design. Proof of recruitment. Currency that would get me food and lodging until we departed.
I pocketed it and moved aside to let the next hopeful take my place.
[JOSHAMEE GIBBS]
Something wrong with that one.
Gibbs had been sailing for thirty years. He'd seen every kind of man the sea could make—good sailors and bad ones, honest and criminal, blessed and cursed. He could read a man's worth in the way he stood, the way he spoke, the calluses on his hands.
This Micke Balmond didn't fit.
The hands were right—sailor's calluses, worn in the proper places. The knowledge was right too, from the brief questions Gibbs had asked. But the bearing was off. Like a man acting a part. Like someone who knew how a sailor should move but had learned it from a book.
Something not right about his eyes, Gibbs thought. Too much going on behind them.
Still. Captain Jack had mentioned a strange sailor he'd met. Told Gibbs to look out for him, take him on if he showed up. The captain rarely explained his reasoning, but he was rarely wrong about people.
Cursed, blessed, or something else entirely—Micke Balmond was aboard now.
Gibbs would keep both eyes on him.
And one hand on his pistol, just in case.
The Faithful Bride was packed that night.
The new recruits gathered in the back room—a motley collection of misfits that somehow had to become a crew. I counted fourteen of us, plus Gibbs at the head of the table. No sign of Jack himself.
Rum flowed freely. Gibbs had explained the basics: destination unknown, payment on completion, danger probable. Standard pirate venture. Half the men here would be dead within a year, statistically speaking.
I wasn't planning to be one of them.
"To the venture." Gibbs raised his cup. "And to Captain Sparrow, wherever the hell he is."
We drank. The rum was rough and strong, burning its way down my throat.
For the first time since waking on that beach, I found myself genuinely smiling.
I had a purpose now. A direction. A crew to sail with and a ship to learn and questions that might finally find answers. The pull toward Jack remained constant—a background hum I was learning to ignore—but it felt less like a curse and more like a compass.
I'm on the path, I thought. Whatever this is, wherever it leads, I'm on it.
The woman entered without anyone noticing.
One moment the doorway was empty. The next, she was standing there—dark-skinned, fiercely beautiful, with a presence that demanded attention despite her silence. Her clothes were practical, her hair tied back, her eyes scanning the room with the cold assessment of a predator evaluating prey.
She locked onto me for a moment. Just a heartbeat. Then moved on.
"Where's Sparrow?"
Gibbs set down his cup. His face had gone carefully neutral.
"Anamaria. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Didn't expect to come." Her voice was sharp enough to cut rope. "But I'm owed a boat. And I hear the captain's recruiting."
The room had gone quiet. Even the drunkest recruits could sense the tension crackling between them.
"He's not here right now—"
"Then I'll wait." Anamaria pulled out a chair and sat, her posture a challenge. "He can explain how he plans to repay me when he shows."
Gibbs opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I'll... send word."
He hurried out. The rest of us sat in uncomfortable silence while Anamaria stared at nothing, her jaw tight with controlled fury.
I recognized her. From the films. She'd been part of the crew in the first movie—the woman Jack had wronged by stealing her boat. I hadn't expected to meet her here. Hadn't expected the crackling energy she brought to a room just by existing.
The pull in my chest shifted slightly. Not toward her—still toward Jack, wherever he was. But something about her presence made the sensation sharper. Clearer.
Important, I thought. She's important somehow.
I filed the thought away and finished my rum.
Tomorrow, we'd find out what Sparrow's venture actually was.
Tonight, I was part of a crew.
It was enough.
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